


There's A Hole Where Your Heart Lies

by Sidara



Series: Standing In The Gallows [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Grief, M/M, minor depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:31:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6734341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidara/pseuds/Sidara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve couldn't hold onto Bucky when it mattered the most.</p>
<p>He still can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's A Hole Where Your Heart Lies

**Author's Note:**

> Still not the fix-it fic. Sorry! I think I’ll write my way to it someday though.
> 
> This story follows directly after [Are You A Stranger Without Even A Name](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3201632) and I’d say reading that is kind of integral to reading this.
> 
> I’m trying to orbit the movies so this takes place after Winter Soldier but before Age of Ultron and definitely before Civil War. So no spoilers for the newest movie out. I did run away with tumblr's obsession with Bucky's backpack though. Kinda couldn't help myself.
> 
> Can I just say Steve Rogers is so goddamn hard to write? Thanks to [nightwalker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwalker/pseuds/nightwalker) for the beta. She says it's not as angsty as my usual fare. I think I deserve a gold star for that.

Getting out of Russia took more effort than getting in.

Border security was excruciatingly tight. With Russia flexing power on the world stage and the mess of Ukraine’s annexation still a sore point on both sides involved, Russia was belligerent about guarding its borders.

Two people sneaking in under radar via Sam’s wings was risky but doable. Repeating that mode of transportation as an exit strategy with three people wasn’t viable. Leaving like civilians through an airport within Russia wasn’t an option either. Steve was this country’s bogeyman, alive or dead, and that would never change. Bucky was once a Cold War ghost, and Russia’s political elite always knew where the bodies were hidden, even the walking dead slipped free of HYDRA’s grasp.

So no airports with their layers of identification requirements. No trains for the same reason. They ditched the rental car—purchased with a credit card not easily traced—for something a little more their current on-the-run style.

“Never stole a thing in my life before meeting you,” Sam grumbled under cover of darkness while Steve hot-wired an older model car in a Moscow suburb. “Still can’t believe Captain America is a delinquent at heart.”

Steve shrugged as he started the engine. “It’s for a good cause.”

He stole a quick glance at where Bucky stood a little apart from them, keeping watch with a focus that had been sharpened and honed over the years for only one purpose.

Steve didn’t miss the handgun Bucky carried in his right hand like an extension of his body.

Steve shook his head as he climbed behind the wheel. “Both of you get in.”

Sam climbed into the car, muttering under his breath about how history was wrong, _so wrong_ , when it came to Captain America. Bucky didn’t make a sound when he slid into the back seat.

Steve would never admit to the terror he felt on that dark Moscow street, watching the way Bucky obeyed his every word without argument, without any shred of the vibrant personality Steve remembered.

Steve knew, intellectually, that Bucky wouldn’t be the same after what had been done to him. Sam had gently reiterated that fact after Steve read through the file Natasha had retrieved for him for the hundredth time weeks and weeks ago. But knowing a fact and seeing it in person was a divide so wide Steve didn’t know how to bridge it. Steve feared Bucky would listen to him without realizing he could say _no_ at any time and walk away.

And maybe it said something about Steve, about what he was willing to do for the safety of the only man he’d ever loved, that he couldn’t bring himself to tell Bucky he had a choice.

So Steve kept moving forward, because that’s what any good soldier did.

You ran toward the danger, no matter the cost to yourself.

Guilt was a bitter thing Steve swallowed again and again over the course of hours, choking on the taste, on the words that would not come.

*

They took a circuitous drive southeast and crossed a border nearly a day later that wasn’t as armed to the teeth as it was in the west. The wind howling over the steppes on their way to Kazakhstan shook the car for hours on end and dredged up memories of Italy and a train that left Steve feeling ill as he stared the horizon down.

Steve switched off with Sam after twelve hours, gladly giving up the driver’s seat for the passenger one. He tried to catch some sleep but was too keyed up to do more than close his eyes for minutes at a time. Bucky, Steve noticed, never slept. He never let go of his gun either, knuckles white over the grip, finger resting against the trigger guard. A habit Steve tried not to think about, because he didn’t have the luxury to break apart right now when they were still, technically, in enemy territory.

He wondered if that would change once they made it back stateside.

They’d had no sign of being followed when they finally made it to Aktobe, a small city with a tiny airport, which was all that mattered.

“You care where I put us?” Sam asked in a low voice, eyes locked on his phone as he searched for a place to stay on extremely short notice.

Steve was back behind the wheel, keeping under the speed limit so as to not attract attention. The less people saw of them, the better, which meant the quicker they got off the street, the safer Steve would feel.

“I trust your judgment,” Steve replied. Better than he trusted his own at this point, though he didn’t say that. He couldn’t help glancing at Bucky in the rear view mirror.

“Alright.”

They ditched the car two miles out from their destination and walked the rest of the way, hoping the distance would be enough to not tie them to the vehicle when it was eventually found. They holed up in a hostel that catered to European and American backpackers looking to find themselves in a culture they considered exotic enough to save them from their boring lives. Sam used a different credit card to pay for their stay before clapping Steve on the shoulder and giving him a little shake.

“I’ll be back in an hour. I’m gonna find something to eat and figure a way out of here. Think Stark will take my call from an unknown number?” Sam said.

Steve nodded, neither of them looking at the shadow of a man taking up watch duty by the only window in the room. “If he won’t, JARVIS will. Thanks, Sam.”

Sam left on quiet feet, the door clicking shut behind him. The only sound in the room was two people breathing past a mountain of memories that threatened to crush them. Steve wiped his clammy hands on his pants, distantly surprised to find them shaking.

He survived a world war and death and resurrection, but standing here in front of a ghost was what scared the ever living shit out of him.

“Bucky.”

That dark head turned his way, eyes momentarily snapping to his face. The blank look in those achingly familiar blue eyes sent a knife right through Steve’s chest. He swallowed hard, not sure where to begin. It took him two tries to finally find some words.

“You said you remembered me.”

Those dark brows furrowed, mouth moving stiffly into a frown. Steve watched, morbidly fascinated, as a parody of expression tried to fill Bucky’s face.

“Sometimes it does,” Bucky said.

A chill like ice water shivered down Steve’s spine. “You mean you, right? _You_ remember.”

Bucky paused, mouth pressed into a thin line, before he nodded once, head jerking through the motion. Steve closed his eyes, had to cover his face with one hand, fingers pressing miniature bruises into his skin. 

_It._

That one word said everything about Bucky’s treatment under the Red Room and HYDRA’s control. The Winter Soldier file didn’t do the situation justice. Coming out of Bucky’s own mouth, knowing that’s how he thought of himself, made Steve hunch over and bite back a scream. Of rage, of helplessness, he didn’t know. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Steve forced himself to stand up straight, to look Bucky in the eye and keep looking, even when the other man’s gaze tried to shift aside.

“You’re not an _it_ ,” Steve said in a voice already raw from every emotion imaginable churning beneath his skin. “You’re not a _thing_ Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You’re—”

He broke off, words stuttering to a stop. Steve didn’t know how to adequately explain just what Bucky meant to him when Bucky had no concept of his own self.

And Bucky—he just stood there. Waiting.

Steve sat down on one of the bottom bunk beds with a heavy sigh, feeling so, so out of his depth. “How much _do_ you remember?”

Bucky sat down opposite Steve on the other bunk bed, metal hand glinting in the sunlight coming through the window. He hadn’t taken off his glove, so only the fingers were visible, tiny plates recalibrating as he made a fist. Steve forced himself to look away from the evidence of what was done to Bucky, the familiar simmering anger of knowing how Bucky got it making him grit his teeth. Rage wouldn’t be helpful here.

“I don’t know,” Bucky admitted after a moment. “It comes in waves. In pieces. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not half the time. Been trying to find out.”

Steve bit his tongue until it bled so he didn’t do what his first instinct shouted at him to do, which was to help. Somehow, he knew that would make this whole clusterfuck of a situation worse.

“But you know me.”

Bucky ran a hand through his stringy hair and shrugged tiredly. “You’re there. In some of the memories. Small, then bigger, but it’s you.”

“So you didn’t forget.”

Bucky let out a dry, harsh laugh, a coldness in his eyes that hadn’t been there a second ago shining through. “Oh, it forgot. It forgot fucking everything. They made sure of that.”

Steve flinched. “You. You forgot.”

Bucky chewed on his lower lip, the skin there dry and chapped. “I forgot,” he finally said, though it sounded less like an agreement and more like he was humoring Steve, and not in the good way.

In the brittle silence that fell between them, Steve realized, maybe for the first time, that he didn’t know what to do now that he’d found Bucky. He hadn’t exactly planned for the after part of this search, and jumping in blind was likely to do more harm than good.

So he stalled.

Steve cleared his throat. “When was the last time you slept?”

“I’m tired of sleeping,” Bucky said, sounding weary and angry all at once.

Steve didn’t ask why. He’d seen the records on the cryofreeze protocol, spent many a night thinking about that nightmare. “You should at least rest. I’ll keep watch.”

Bucky hesitated, the stark circles under his eyes like bruises, but he succumbed to the idea in a way which made Steve hope he was obeying because he wanted to and not because he felt he had to. Steve watched as Bucky scooted further onto the bunk bed and curled up in the corner, hand resting on the gun he’d pulled from somewhere on his person.

Steve went to the window and purposefully turned his back on Bucky. He’d promised to keep watch. He couldn’t do that while looking at a man he thought he’d never see again.

*

“We can’t get a straight shot home,” Same explained a little over an hour later. “We’ll need to make a side trip.”

Steve opened up the hefty plastic bag of takeout food Sam had brought back with him. The smell of meat and spices hit his nose as he opened up the cartons, seeing noodles and meat filling half of them. The other half was stuffed full of dumplings. Steve popped one into his mouth, chewing quickly. He hadn’t realized he was starving until Sam came through the door carrying a late lunch for them to share.

Sam waved Steve off when he lifted up only two plastic forks and asked a silent question with his eyes. “I already ate. This is for you and Mr. tall, dark and emo over there.”

Steve shrugged, handed a fork to Bucky, and dug in. Both Steve and Sam didn’t comment on the way Bucky only ate out of the containers after Steve did.

“Tony still sending us a plane?” Steve asked around a mouthful of noodles.

“It’ll get here tomorrow. He’s sending someone along from Stark Industries to disguise it as a business trip and not an exfil.”

“It’s an exfil.”

“ _I_ know it’s an exfil. _You_ know it’s an exfil. The public is gonna think it’s something different if they ever find out about this little trip. Besides, Bucky here needs some papers to get through security, and I don’t know about you, but my forgery skills aren’t that great.”

“I can find my own way out,” Bucky said.

Sam shrugged. “Not saying you can’t, but this’ll be quicker.”

Bucky’s gaze flickered from Sam to Steve, who nodded encouragingly. “Best route out of here.”

Bucky’s strange, troubled expression told Steve he didn’t think so, but Bucky didn’t argue, just went back to eating the dumplings, one after the other. Steve let him have whatever he wanted from the food without picking a fight over the best parts like they had when they were children. The sudden pang of distant homesickness seemed out of place there, in a landlocked country far removed from Brooklyn’s docks and brownstones, but it hit him anyway.

When Steve first woke up in this new world, Fury had helped to ease him into it by dropping him off at a cabin in the middle of nowhere, armed with an satellite connection for wifi and a StarkPad for company, telling him to take his time. To call Fury when he was done reeling from the changes in a world that had moved on without him. Fury was old school in that way, though he didn’t shirk the psychologists on SHIELD’s payroll. Steve saw a shrink after walking out of the wilderness of his mind as far as he could, for all the good it did him.

“What are you looking for?” Dr. Keiko Hashimoto had asked him at the time.

She’d been a tiny slip of a thing, with dark hair and dark eyes, and a deceptively mild military bearing that hid her years of service in the Army’s Medical Corps. He’d scanned her office and took in the pictures and commendations chronicling her career as an officer in the Army, the photo of her in uniform bearing the twin railroad tracks denoting her rank as a Captain before retiring prominently displayed.

Steve found himself being honest with her back then instead of paying lip service like he did with everyone else, the facade of Captain America cracking just enough to let Steve Rogers peek out.

“Home.”

He hadn’t found it then, in the months after he woke up, nor in the years since. Looking at where Bucky sat, back to the wall with eyes on every exit, Steve knew he’d finally found it again, for all that it was broken and didn’t resemble what he remembered.

*

“Wake me up for my shift,” Sam said when he crawled into bed.

“If I need to,” was Steve’s answer.

“Even super soldiers need to sleep, Steve.”

Sam slept that night. Bucky didn’t. Steve was still too afraid that if he closed his eyes for long, Bucky would disappear, so he stayed awake as well.

When first watch ended, Steve didn’t wake Sam up. The room was dark, lit only by a tiny bit of moonlight streaming through the window, when Bucky finally moved away from his post. Steve watched Bucky approach the door with his heart in his throat and couldn’t stop himself from sitting up on the bottom bunk where he’d been lying down.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, face nothing but shadows in the dark. “Need some air.”

“I’ll come with you,” Steve replied softly as he tossed aside the thin blanket.

Bucky didn’t wait for him, merely opened the door in such a way the hinges didn’t squeak and disappeared down the hall. Steve shoved his feet into his boots, left his shield resting against the bunk bed in its leather carrying case, and strode towards the door. Sam rolled over on his bunk and lifted his head a little.

“Problem?” he asked, sounding wide awake.

“No. Go back to sleep. I’ve got this,” Steve said before hurrying after Bucky.

Steve met up with him in the hallway. Bucky timed their departure well, with no one at the front desk when they came out. He undid the deadbolt and opened the door, the both of them silently slipping outside. The night air was chilly, raising goose bumps on Steve’s bare arms. He kept pace with Bucky, trying not to crowd the other man, unable to keep his eyes from glancing over at Bucky every few seconds.

No one was out on the street at this hour, not even the drunks. They circled the surrounding blocks twice, but the tension lining Bucky’s shoulders didn’t ease any. The restlessness driving him forward didn’t seem like it would go away any time soon.

“I don’t think we were followed to Aktobe,” Steve said as they started their third circuit.

Bucky kept his hands tucked into his jacket pockets and didn’t stop. “Feels like they’re always out there.”

Some part of Steve knew they always would be, but paranoia would drive them crazy if they succumbed to it forever. He didn’t want to live like that. He didn’t want _Bucky_ to live like that.

“I won’t let them take you. Not again.”

“Don’t.” Bucky drew in a heavy breath and sharply shook his head. “Don’t promise that. Ain’t something you can keep, Steve.”

That stung, the guilt burrowing deep. Steve winced and hoped Bucky didn’t see it. “You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t trust _me_.”

Steve tilted his head back and stared up at the cloudy night sky, gritting his teeth hard at the truth in those words he knew he had to face. Fixing what had been done to Bucky was going to take more skill than Steve alone had. All he had was a mountain of guilt and a wealth of battered love, two things he would carry with him, always.

None of that would ever realistically be enough to piece together a broken life.

“I trust you,” Steve said quietly, fighting to get the words out, but not fighting to mean them. “I trust _you_ , Bucky, because if you were everything you think HYRDA made you into, then we wouldn’t be standing here today.”

“You still got no self-preservation skills,” Bucky replied, mouth twisting. “It shot you.”

“Bucky—”

“But _I_ saved you.” He came to an abrupt stop before letting out a hollow little laugh. “You’re right, though. If it was all that I am, I’d have left you at the bottom of the Potomac.”

Steve fell silent, staring at Bucky. The bright edge of a streetlamp shone just inches from where they stood, making it easier for Steve to meet Bucky’s gaze. He thought about the bullets in his gut and every blow he’d taken on the Helicarrier, refusing to fight when all he’d ever done in his life was raise his fists for battle.

“You’re still saving me.”

Bucky shook his head, scoffing at Steve. “No, I’m not. How can I save you if I don’t even know me enough to know you anymore?”

Steve hadn’t confessed in ages, but it felt like that tonight, in a church made of asphalt and wind. “You’re alive. It counts, Bucky. It has to.”

“Got a funny definition of alive, Steve.”

He turned to go, taking a few steps forward before realizing Steve wasn’t following. Bucky looked back, staring at Steve, before he hesitantly raised his right arm and held out his hand. Steve stared at him with wide eyes, a flash image of the past overlaying everything for a split second, the roar of a train echoing in his ears.

Steve shook himself free of his thoughts and silent protestations in order to take Bucky’s outstretched hand in his own.

On the walk back to the hostel, Steve tried not to think about the past and the way his fingers had once fallen just shy of changing the future. Instead, he held on tight to Bucky, neither letting go.

*

“Ride’s here,” Sam said, looking up from his phone.

Steve nodded and grabbed his backpack and shield. Bucky did the same, shouldering the tattered backpack he’d been carrying around for who knew how long with practiced ease. The three of them left the room, with Sam handling their sign out so Steve and Bucky could duck outside and into the backseat of a black town car idling in the street.

Steve was surprised to see who had drawn the short straw to pick them up, but only for a moment. “Maria.”

Maria Hill inclined her head at Steve, though she only had eyes for Bucky. Dressed in a neat pantsuit and high heels, dark hair pinned up out of her face, she looked more like Pepper than the highly ranked SHIELD operative that was her life before Project Insight. Steve guessed that was the point if their cover story was going to hold.

“Anything I need to know about besides the obvious?” Maria asked, never taking her eyes off Bucky in the rearview mirror.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Sam clambered into the front passenger seat and closed his door, prompting Maria to pull into the street.

“What you need is in the briefcase,” she said to Steve. “We’re heading to London first and spending a few days there for business purposes before flying back to New York. We needed a cover and I do have legitimate reasons for being in London.”

“So Sam explained yesterday.” Steve picked the briefcase off the floor and opened it, searching for the hidden compartment that carried several credit cards and one extremely well-forged passport for a man with Bucky’s face. “What if they flag his photo?”

“JARVIS is already embedded in the system and ready to block any possible alerts it might ping. Sorry, Steve, but his picture has to stay if we’re traveling through civilian channels.”

“Fine. How bad is the red-tape going to be getting in and out of Heathrow?”

“I’ve mitigated it as much as possible. Private terminal, private security. Not as clean as if we were backed by the government, but it’ll do.”

“And here?”

“Same deal.”

Steve trusted Maria. Had even before they brought down SHIELD together. She was a no-nonsense woman, had to be in order to attain the rank she once carried, but she was smart enough to know when to bend on certain issues. She could play the spy game with the best of them, had done exactly that when she’d saved Steve, Natasha and Sam in Washington, DC, but he didn’t hold it against her. Like Natasha, Maria utilized her strengths to the best of her abilities, and that usually happened in the gray area between law and order.

Like now.

She was right in that getting out of Aktobe was a smoother operation than if they’d attempted it alone. Maria was all business in ushering them through the terminal, managing to use the Stark name to keep attention focused on her and not them. They were soon whisked away through a restricted door and onto the tarmac itself where Tony’s private jet waited.

The pilot and co-pilot weren’t familiar to Steve, though they were to Maria. Steve left her to the small talk, following Bucky through the jet to a group of plush leather seats. He claimed one for himself and Steve took the seat facing him, trying not to box Bucky in. Sam sprawled out on the couch, threw an arm over his eyes, and promptly passed out with the skill of a soldier who could sleep anywhere. 

“Who is she?” Bucky asked in a low voice, looking over Steve’s shoulder at the front of the jet.

“A friend,” Steve replied.

“I don’t have those.”

“You have me.”

Bucky looked him in the eye for a second before his gaze slipped away. “It—I had handlers. Targets. Missions. Nothing else mattered.”

A part of Steve wanted to argue, wanted to tell Bucky he was wrong, but he’d be lying if he did. Because Bucky had been treated as a weapon for so long that even now, months after the fall of SHIELD and the destruction of the Helicarriers, he still saw himself as what they made him. And Steve couldn’t pretend otherwise, not and be able to live with himself afterwards. He owed Bucky that recognition, even if it left him feeling hollowed out and cold, because to ignore what was done to Bucky would erase any hope of healing.

Bucky deserved a lot of things, but he didn’t deserve that.

*

The flight to London was long but thankfully uneventful. When they arrived in the evening, it was raining, and they ended up circling Heathrow for an extra twenty minutes before getting permission to land. Maria again acted as a buffer of sorts while going through Customs, Bucky’s passport coming up clean, courtesy of JARVIS. An SUV out front in Arrivals picked them up and drove them into London via the M4.

Maria had made good use of Tony’s business account and reserved three studio suites at the Dorchester. Having been around Tony long enough, Steve wasn’t surprised by the luxury they were dropped into, even if Sam was. Bucky didn’t seem to have an opinion one way or the other, merely followed Steve to the suite they would share, because Maria didn’t need to ask if they were taking separate rooms. She had merely handed Steve the key card with a raised eyebrow and a silent, judging look.

“You’re spending too much time around Natasha,” Steve told her.

“We have a set spar date every Monday. I like to start my week off right,” Maria replied mildly before slipping way into her own suite.

Sam had already disappeared into his suite, so there was nothing left for Steve to do but usher Bucky into theirs. The place was richly decorated, with a King sized bed that looked way too soft for Steve’s current state of mind, and a marble bathroom bigger than some studios in New York City. Maria had declined the unpacking service for all of them, but neither man moved to empty their backpacks.

Bucky was eyeing the bed like he’d rather shoot it than sleep in it. Steve kind of felt the same way.

“At least there’s two arm chairs,” he half-heartedly joked.

Bucky ignored him, prowling the suite in a way that told Steve exactly what he was doing. Steve opted to sit on the nearest chair and stay out of the way as Bucky cased the room, figuring out sightlines and exits and the best form of defense the suite would provide in case of an attack.

It was difficult not to see HYDRA’s training in every move Bucky made, in every action he took. Steve knew he was the only one alive who clearly remembered what Bucky used to be like before everything unraveled. He’d hoped for the same from Bucky, but that was only ever going to be a false hope in the end. Steve could want his world back with every fiber of his being, but it was lost to time and ice and the cold.

“Are you hungry?” Steve asked once Bucky finished and the silence got to be a little much.

“No.”

“Well, I am. I’m gonna order some room service.”

Steve needed something to do and that was the best he could come up with. He wasn’t leaving the room, too afraid that if he did, Bucky would disappear and he’d be right back where he started all those weeks ago, chasing a ghost.

The person on the other end of the line was very helpful in guiding Steve through the food options available to guests. He ordered double the amount of everything that sounded good, hoping something on the platters that got wheeled into the room thirty minutes later would appeal to Bucky.

Classic English comfort food that Steve remembered as modern fare back in the day. Strong English tea, with cream and sugar on the side, and delicate tea cups that reminded him of Peggy and the way she hadn’t been shy about topping off her cuppa with a dash of whiskey in the middle of a war.

In her right state of mind, Peggy would see the difference in Bucky. Steve was selfishly glad she would never get the chance. He didn’t think he could survive her pity, for all that she’d mean well.

“You can join me if you want,” Steve said.

Bucky ignored him. Steve felt awkward as he ate alone while Bucky remained standing at the window. It looked out onto a pretty courtyard, not the street, but that didn’t mean anyone couldn’t scale the building and find their way inside. Steve thought about reassuring Bucky he could stand down for a little bit, that it was safe, but the words would be nothing but a lie.

Still, he was surprised when Bucky eventually came and sat at the table with him, carefully filling his plate with some of every dish and methodically eating his way through the sausages and mashed potatoes and peas and everything else that Steve had ordered. He seemed to like the sticky toffee pudding best, so Steve let him have both pieces.

When they had demolished everything on the cart, Bucky left the table for the bathroom and locked himself inside. Steve listened as the shower turned on before digging out his phone and calling Natasha. Texting might have been more secure, more private, but Steve wasn’t going to hide anything from Bucky.

Natasha picked up after the first ring. “A little birdie told me you found what you were looking for.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

Steve rubbed at his eyes, ignoring how they burned. “I don’t know how I should feel. He’s here but he’s—not.”

“It’ll get harder before it gets better.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He remembered the dragging depression from that first year after he woke from the ice. The way getting out of bed seemed like such a monumental hurdle on some days, but he still did it. Eventually, it got easier, though the lingering traces of _not okay_ never went away.

“I just want to help him,” Steve said, feeling weighed down by the enormity of everything that had happened.

“Sometimes you can’t,” Natasha told him gently, without softening the blow. “So you shouldn’t be the one to try, or you risk making it worse.”

“Natasha.”

“You’re too close, Steve. You will always be too close.”

He closed his eyes, thinking of muggy Brooklyn summers and the heavy, warm weight of another body on top of his own, the world narrowed down to one.

“Goodbye, Nat.”

Steve hung up and put his phone away. He sat there, feeling numb and helpless for too long, before getting to his feet. He cleared the table of dirty plates and dishes before rolling the room service cart out into the hall. He wasn’t in the mood for television or music while he waited Bucky out, so Steve dug up his sketchbook, flipped to the next blank page, and started to draw. At first, his strokes were heavy-handed and dark. He had to consciously ease up on the pressure, to soften the lines of his drawings, even if the harder edges were closer to the truth now.

Art was his escape, his therapy, a way to empty himself of things he couldn’t share with anyone else save one man. This had always been for him, for them.

Two hours after Bucky went into the bathroom, the shower turned off. By then, Steve had put away the sketchbook and was doing nothing more than staring out the window in a parody of keeping watch. He looked over at Bucky when the other man stepped out, hair damp and stuck to the side of his face, skin clean even if his clothes weren’t.

The only light burning in the room came from a single lamp, throwing haphazard shadows across the walls. Bucky moved on quiet feet until he was standing next to Steve, close enough to touch. The look on his face had Steve rising to his feet, Natasha’s words of warning whispering through his head.

“We stayed here. In London,” Bucky said slowly, the words coming out almost like a question.

And Steve—his heart just about broke into a million more pieces. Because there were several times they’d been stationed in London for short periods during the war, but the only one he clearly remembered was after Bucky’s rescue.

Steve remembered exactly what he’d promised Bucky in the dark, in that bed.

“We did,” Steve said hoarsely. “Is that what you want? We could stay here or go somewhere else. Wherever you want, Bucky. Just tell me.”

Steve could see Bucky slipping away even while standing right in front of him. Could see the coiled tension he carried in his body that Steve accurately translated as needing to be on the move. It was the same tension he’d carried after being rescued in World War II, the way Bucky kept looking over his shoulder, trying to escape the terrors dogging his heels that Steve never saw until it was far too late.

They’d destroyed what they could of HYDRA months ago, but Steve had a feeling it would never be completely eradicated from the world. Even if HYDRA died, some other organization would take its place, riding on its coattails. Bucky couldn’t outrun them all if he stayed in the public eye and that’s where Steve lived now.

That’s what Captain America was created to be—a glorified target.

He would give it all up without a thought if it meant Bucky would be safe. The world could go on without them, exactly how it had before. The Avengers could find another leader.

He could find a life again.

Steve knew, somehow, that dream would never happen, because dreams were many things, but mostly they were this: unattainable, even on the best of days.

“I’ll come with you. We don’t have to stay here,” Steve said, trying not to sound desperate while faced with a losing battle he was never going to win.

“You can’t. You have responsibilities.”

“ _You’re_ my responsibility.”

“I don’t want to be,” Bucky snapped, eyes flashing. “Not like this. ”

Steve stepped closer, half-raising one hand. “Bucky . . .”

Despite everything he’d gone through, everything the Red Room and HYDRA and Zola and Pierce and countless others had tried to destroy, they couldn’t stop James Buchanan Barnes from caring about Steve Rogers. Steve had to believe that, because Bucky was almost feral about maintaining his personal space, but he still reached for Steve’s hand with his own, squeezing once, hard, before letting go. Steve flexed his fingers, already missing the other man’s touch like the drowning missed air.

Bucky licked his lips, face shadowed in the dim light. Steve still saw the desperation in his eyes, the anxiousness of a person afraid their chance at freedom would slip away if they didn’t run. “I need to try to do this on my own. So let me.”

It was the first time Steve could recall Bucky asking for anything in the few days they’d been together, and he was asking to be let go.

Steve wouldn’t be who he was if he ignored that plea.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, eyes stinging with tears he refused to let fall, Steve nodded through his grief. “Okay. Okay, Bucky. Just—let me get your things.”

He retrieved Bucky’s backpack from the closet, noticing how worn and frayed the straps were, the patched over corner on the bottom showing multiple layers of stitching. Without even thinking about it, Steve picked up his backpack as well and dumped the contents of both on the bed. He sorted through everything quickly, swapping his backpack for Bucky’s. He hesitated over his own things before finally making up his mind. Writing something quick in the sketchbook, Steve snapped it shut and stuffed it into Bucky’s backpack. He handed the newly packed backpack over to Bucky, watching as he shrugged it on and adjusted the straps. 

Steve cleared his throat, but his words still came out sounding broken. “I gave you one of our credit cards. Use it for however long you want. Or don’t. I won’t track it and I’ll tell Tony not to either.”

“Okay.” Bucky wouldn’t quite look at him when he asked, “You’re letting me go?”

Steve stepped closer, trying not to crowd Bucky and failing miserably. “I would never keep you where you didn’t want to be. I will always look for you when you need me to. All you gotta do is ask.”

Bucky lifted his head, mouth twisting, but his eyes were soft with something Steve couldn’t read. Too much time and trauma and distance existed between them now for Steve to know Bucky like he once used to. He wasn’t going to get the chance to learn any time soon.

“Maybe when you find me again, I’ll have found myself.”

They were standing so close Steve could feel Bucky’s breath ghosting over his face. Could smell the fancy soap from his shower and the headier scent that was just him. The sound of London now mingled in Steve’s ears with the noise of London then, a cacophony that left him feeling lightheaded.

“Can I kiss you goodbye?” Steve begged.

He was being selfish with this, with Bucky. He knew that. 

He always had been.

The thing that no one understood, then or now, was that Captain America was the ideal wrapped up in a flag colored suit, living propaganda for countless generations of politicians and the military and anyone who ever wanted a piece of supposed greatness. A figure of carefully cultivated righteousness created for public consumption.

But Steve Rogers? He was just a kid from Brooklyn, born with a weak body but a strong heart where it mattered. Steve Rogers would serve his country, would uphold its core values, same as Captain America. But Captain America would never die, and Steve? He crashed a ship into the Arctic.

There was only one man Steve would ever go to war for, would ever live for, would ever die for.

And Bucky didn’t remember.

He didn’t remember Steve, not wholly, not if he still needed to piece together his life from before HYDRA got their claws in him. If he didn’t want Steve there with him, if he wanted privacy to break apart the remaining pieces to make something new, then Steve would grant him that request. He would do his damndest to give Bucky the time and space he needed, for however long he wanted, because Bucky had every right to want things now and be given them.

Except.

Except Steve was a good man, but he was a man, and sin befell even the greatest of them.

“Please, Bucky.”

Bucky didn’t say a word, didn’t give permission one way or another, and while Steve would ask, he wouldn’t take. Then Bucky moved, shifting forward so he could rest his hands on Steve’s shoulders. Steve’s own hands found their way to Bucky’s hips, fabric bunching between his fingers as he held on as tightly as he could.

When Bucky kissed him, Steve couldn’t breathe.

Bucky’s lips were warm and chapped, soft pressure lingering for a moment that seemed to stretch on forever until it snapped and he was pulling back.

Pulling away.

It took every ounce of strength in Steve’s body to let him go.

When the door shut, Steve was left alone with their shared memories only he remembered and the phantom weight of a kiss burned into his skin.

In the morning, Sam didn’t ask about Bucky’s absence or Steve’s red eyes. He only asked, “Are we starting up the search again?”

Steve thought about the way Bucky had looked, limned in the glow of lamplight, shouldering a past no one should carry alone, but telling Steve to let him try.

“No,” Steve said quietly. “Not right now. Time we went back to New York. I’ve been away too long as it is.”

Sam, ever steadfast, didn’t argue. “Alright. I’ll call Maria and tell her what’s up.”

Steve nodded and went to pack up his things in Bucky’s old tattered backpack, feeling as if he were crashing all over again.

*

He bought a one way ticket to Paris with Steve’s credit card before tossing it in the bin to prevent further tracking. He kept his face averted from security cameras and boarded the first Eurostar of the day leaving St Pancras International. The train was coming out of the Chunnel when Bucky finally opened up the backpack Steve had given him. Inside, buried beneath his clothes and weapons, he found a sketchbook half filled with drawings of who he had once been. 

All the words Steve couldn’t say, sketched out for pages and pages, a wealth of care put to every pencil stroke, every detail. Slowly, Bucky flipped through the sketchbook, bare fingers tracing the edge of every picture.

On the last page, in a messy scrawl written by familiar hands, was a short note.

_I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll always wait for you, no matter who you choose to be._

_Just don’t be a stranger._

Bucky closed the sketchbook and held it tightly in his hands for miles, watching the French countryside flash on by. Eventually, he opened it again, scrounged up a pen, and wrote a name on the first blank page.

First. Middle. Last.

But _I am_ was the hardest beginning he’d ever had to start.

Bucky thought Steve would be proud.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me over [here](http://mysoulforcoffee.tumblr.com/) if you want.


End file.
